Sonata & Fugue
by SilverSpoken63
Summary: Set after "A Scandal in Belgravia" Sherlock is still reeling from his encounter with Irene Adler. However, Mycroft shows up with an unexpected case for his brother.
1. Chapter 1

"Mycroft?" Watson opened the door and found Sherlock's brother on the other side. He looked more tired and surly than usual and his air of superiority seemed momentarily diminished.

"Where is my brother?" Mycroft's eyes flickered past John Watson into the flat of 221B Baker Street. It looked just as disheveled as usual: papers piled on the desk, a laptop screen glowing brightly underneath more papers, and an assortment of chemicals on the kitchen table. Not satisfied with John's silence, he moved quickly past him into the apartment, straight to Sherlock Holmes' bedroom.

The door was cracked and Mycroft didn't bother with knocking or gently rousing his sleeping brother. "Sherlock!" he barked, his voice penetrating Sherlock's colorless dreams. Sherlock groaned and rolled over, his back deliberately facing Mycroft. "I am growing impatient," Mycroft said, and pulled the blankets off of Sherlock, who quickly rolled back over and his tired eyes glared at Mycroft.

"Do you have any idea what time I went to bed?" Sherlock sat up on the edge of his bed and blinked several times to gain focus of his surroundings. He then turned his gaze back to Mycroft, his hands were covered in a thin powder which suggested he was wearing latex gloves earlier and there were a few drops of blood on his left shoe. It was easy for Sherlock to figure out Mycroft needed his help. Again.

"It doesn't matter, I suggest you get up. There's an urgent matter I need you to attend with me," Mycroft turned around left the room. John met him in the living room with a questionable look, which was promptly ignored.

Mycroft took a seat on the sofa and pulled out his phone, checking various messages. John studied him for a moment, when Sherlock trudged into the room, looking surly and miserable. Mycroft stood up and grabbed his coat. "Let's be on our way then?" He reached for the door knob.

"Are you planning on telling me anything about this murder? Or should I just guess?" His voice was deep and each word meticulously chosen.

"Perhaps we should just go," Watson said quietly, trying to absolve any argument that was already brewing.

Mycroft let go of the door and walked towards Sherlock. "Believe me; you'll want to see this firsthand. I won't say anything until then".

Sherlock stood for a moment, debating his next sentence. Instead, he grabbed his coat and scarf and walked out of the door. Mycroft made eye contact with John, who merely shrugged.

The London air was brisk for March; however the sun shone brightly, trying to promise Londoners that the day couldn't possibly be bad. Mycroft's car was parked in the front and he gestured for the men to get inside.

It was uncomfortable sitting in the backseat with two other grown men. John's thoughts were lingering on to where they could possibly be headed. Ever since he came to know Sherlock Holmes, his life was never dull, that was certain. On some days, though, John wished he could just lead a quiet life of desperation. Sherlock's voice penetrated his thoughts.

"You could have just rang and told us to meet you at St. Bart's," he muttered, crossing his arms.

John looked out the window and saw that the car was indeed approaching the hospital they spent so much time in, particularly in the morgue. He wondered if the love-struck Molly Hooper would be eagerly waiting. She reminded John of a puppy who loves their master no matter how mistreated it was.

The car pulled up to the visitor's entrance; Mycroft, John, and Sherlock exited. They walked in silence with Mycroft leading the way. Sherlock's eyes were taking in every miniscule detail: the nurse's puffy eyes indicating she had just broken up with her boyfriend, the receptionist's chipped nails indicating she had just come from kickboxing class, and the couple in the corner trying to digest the fact that their son did not make it.

Sherlock constantly detached himself from the harsh reality he was forced to live in; involving emotions was something he kept from doing, if he could help it. There have been one or two cases in which he could not help but let his feelings get in the way. But those cases could be counted on one hand.

Mycroft led them to the third floor. Sherlock and John exchanged looks that said: "where the hell are we going"? The third floor consisted of many critical care patients.

Nurses and doctors busied themselves from room to room, checking on their precious patients. A couple of nurses hurried towards a room with a crash cart, defibrillators on top, to a room at the corner, where an obnoxious beeping sound was coming from. Sherlock figured that he wouldn't be going to that room, with the family being shoved outside, so they could attempt to save a dying husband. No, Mycroft had a wonderful case in store for them, Sherlock knew that much.

But Sherlock wasn't prepared when they entered room 323.

A woman laid on her back, eyes closed. She had deep auburn hair and fair skin, with a few faint freckles on her cheeks and nose. The most striking feature of her face was the fact that most of it was bruised: someone had clearly beaten her and used an extreme amount of force. She was on a breathing machine and IVs were connected to administer morphine and various other pain and anxiety medications. A heart monitor was hooked up to her and John glanced at the screen, she was resting peacefully for someone in a coma.

John reached down and picked up her chart. "Unidentified female, around the age of 27… Covered in multiple lacerations on her back, legs, and arms… Bruised face, but no permanent damage...Multiple bruises all over the body, with no broken bones, however, there is a compound fracture in her left tibia, and several bruised ribs." He read the major parts out loud. "She's been comatose for three days now," he added. John looked up towards Sherlock, whose face was blank, as if in shock. Mycroft smiled slightly.

"John, I'd like you to meet one of our closest friends – Fiona Murphy," Mycroft said, his gaze fixed on the unconscious woman.


	2. Chapter 2

John's jaw dropped. "Not to sound overly rude, but I still cannot imagine either of you having close friends." John allowed his eyes to meet Sherlock who was still silent, and John continued, "Where did they find her?"

"Here in the morgue. She was lying face down on the table, completely nude I might add," Mycroft's phone beeped, signaling he had a text message. "Excuse me, I've got to make a quick call," he began to dial a number and exited the room.

John looked at his friend and wondered what Sherlock had discovered in the mere ten minutes he had been in the room. Sherlock walked towards the window and looked outside and continued to remain silent. John had grown accustomed to random silences of Sherlock Holmes and learned to not take it personally, even though he still did at times. His focus returned the young woman on the bed. John studied the slow breathing and noticed her eyes moving underneath her eyelids – she was dreaming. That's when she uttered a loud and painful scream.

Sherlock was instantly by Fiona's side, pressing the code button to call a nurse. Within moments, a disgruntled nurse came in.

"Stand aside," she shove Sherlock out of her way and patted Fiona's hand and whispered reassuring words. Fiona grabbed the nurse's hand and squeezed, while the nurse looked at the morphine drip. A moment later, Fiona's hand let go of the nurse and her breathing returned to normal.

John was confused. Most patients in a coma rarely had normal functions such as screaming or grabbing a hand. "Miss, I thought her chart said she was comatose?"

The nurse looked at John and gave him a look. "First, you are certainly not authorized to read her chart," she paused to adjust Fiona's pillow and began to take her pulse, "and secondly, she is not _comatose_. The chart only says that so that we don't state the obvious that we're sedating her for her safety and ours." Satisfied with the reading, the nurse picked up the chart and jotted down some notes.

Sherlock moved in the direction of the nurse. "You mean to tell me that as health care professionals, you're purposely sedating a woman? You have not right to do that. Is it because your daughter's children keep you up all night? Or is it because you're just tired of taking care of everyone else?" The harsh tone did not startle the nurse. She closed the chart and placed it back in its proper spot, then approached Sherlock, making their personal distance from one another incredibly uncomfortable.

"Sir, if you had seen the state she was in when we first got her you'd understand. And I can assure you, we have every cause. It's that or we'll keep her in a constant state of pain and distress," the nurse turned and left the room in a hurry, brushing past Mycroft, who was re-entering the room.

"Sherlock, do you always have to make _everyone_ uncomfortable?" Mycroft chastised.

Sherlock paid no mind and focused again on Fiona. "What did the nurse mean by that? You said she was found unconscious."

"She woke up and had a fit. It was before I arrived and she apparent broke the nose of an intern as they tried to move her. The doctors tell me that whenever she is a little coherent, she screams at the sight of most men, either trying to claw their eyes out or push them away. They have the tape if you'd like to see it for yourself."

"Sherlock," John said as he moved to an empty chair, "I don't think you need to see that tape. You can figure out everything you need from here and the case file." John's calm voice brought Sherlock back to reality; John's eyes flickered back to the face of Fiona. Something was there, some kind of history John was most curious about. Sherlock sat in the chair to the left of Fiona's hospital bed. He crossed his legs and put his hands together, as if he was going to pray.

"I need to see all of her markings," his voice was quiet. John looked at him; there was no way a doctor would allow such a thing.

Mycroft scoffed as he re-entered the room. "There is no way I'm touching her, or moving her."

"No matter, I can get someone to do it for me." He pulled out his phone and sent a text.

"You cannot mean that girl from the morgue?" The disapproval in Mycroft's voice was overly apparent.

John's eyes widened. "SHERLOCK! You can't do that to Fiona. I don't care how badly you want to view those markings; all I'll allow you to do is look at whatever pictures they've taken. Don't you _dare_ move that poor girl." The agitated tone startled both Sherlock and Mycroft. There was another awkward silence. These men clearly were not the kind of brothers who comforted one another, John thought. His pulse was racing from yelling at Sherlock.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "I'll have someone e-mail you the case file and photographs. I do not doubt you can handle this. But I did not ask you to solve a case." His gaze met Sherlock's.

"Then why did you drag me here?" Sherlock asked. There was no need to call upon him if there was no case.

"Why Sherlock," Mycroft said, "I called you here to be nothing but a comforting friend to Fiona. After all, we're all the family she has." Mycroft nodded to John and left the room.

More silence filled the room; the only noises were the machine's Fiona was hooked up too. John noticed Sherlock had a faraway look upon his face; probably trying to figure out Mycroft's true reasoning behind his presence at the hospital. Why couldn't he just be normal for once and understand not every situation was a chance to be right?

Sherlock wished for his violin. The comfort he felt when playing an intricate piece of music was like no other; there was comfort in the way his bow moved effortlessly over the string, producing the most soothing melodies. Fiona always like his music, he thought briefly. For a moment, he grabbed her bow arm and turned her palm over. There were calluses on her hand from playing, he noticed. Sherlock pulled out his mobile phone from his pocket and began searching for solo performances in the past few weeks. After a few minutes of clicking and scrolling he found what he was looking for.

"John, I need you to go to the Southbank Centre and track down a Frederick Pierce. He was probably the last person to see Fiona," Sherlock said.

John looked up at him. "Why wouldn't you go?"

"You heard Mycroft, I'm here to comfort Fiona," he replied while nodding towards Fiona's bed. John sighed, stood up, and put on his coat. "Oh," Sherlock said as John was walking out the door, "she won't be going by Fiona. When you see Frederick, tell him you're inquiring about Alice Lewis."


End file.
